


Little Deaths

by LolaBleu



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LolaBleu/pseuds/LolaBleu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violate drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Touching From a Distance

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a couple of disconnected drabbles of stuff that I cut from my other fic's, but that I liked too much to toss out. If more stuff fits that description I'll add them.

It's a whim, a fleeting fancy that brings her into the backyard when the sky turns from inky black, or as close as it gets to that in a metropolis, through all the tones of blue to watch what there is to see of a sunrise with a thick bank of clouds lolling across the sky. When the blue tinges pink in the east she turns to go back in the house.

The look that passes between them - her walking back into the house, him watching from the basement window - is more whimper than bang, and even if neither of them give it away outwardly there's still that mutual roll of the stomach and flutter of the heart. They're leftovers; reactions akin to a nerves twitching a limb in the seconds after it's been disconnected from its body.

She finds him later in the den sticking his hand in the fireplace, as the men in the house are wont to do on occasion. Once he picks the blackened flesh from his palm it's pink and new and ready for round two or twelve or twenty; whatever number he's on by now because nobody's really counting anyway. It's not much different from the whim that took her outside in the morning that brings her in here now.

Her entrance seems to suck the air from the room, cloying and charred as it is, and fills the shadows with doubt. Neither one of them look impassively at each other like they did hours earlier because close quarters make that impossible. Instead it's looks full of balls and brash and cocky silent challenges that pass between them because words are gifts and neither one of them is deserving.

There's the sticky peeling sound of flesh pulling away from the floor as her bare feet cross the hardwood. The sharp tink of her nail against the side of full bottle of rum, minus a couple of swallows that did nothing more than burn on the way down and flavor her mouth spicy to counterpoint the nicotine when his tongue traces out the backside of her teeth once he's got her pushed up against the wall.

There's nothing sweet about the smile that quirks up her lips, it's got victory written all over it because they both know that if she wasn't here she'd be somewhere else with someone else filling her up in dirty sticky ways. But she's not, it's her and him together for always just like he promised.

There's a pulse between them, heavy and wet like a heart pumping sludge rather than blood. The push-pull of lips and hands is edged in teeth and nails; nothing tender, only a constant pleasurable pain that's the summation and epitome of their history together and separate because when it comes down to it they were just different shaped razors that hurt so much better than the ones they used to drag across their skin. A thin line weeping red, healing scabbed and pink. That's the summation of their lives.

They're just souls stripped down to bare bones, retaining only enough common decency to wait until the house is asleep to fuck in the den, but it's mostly because exhibitionism has never been their thing. But there's too many years and too much emotion between them to be anything else anymore.

Even if it's a whim that started it there's a perverse determination that seeps between them; she wants him to know that she's a better fuck than her mom, and he wants her to know he'd never fuck anyone else the way he does her.

The rustle of clothes like the rush of a birds wings in flight, the thumping thud of heartbeats, the heavy raport of his belt hitting the floor. Sounds of a frenzy that's only slowed and not smothered by his fingers pushing into her a few times so he can coat himself in the wetness leaking out.

Her teeth wrap around his collar bone like she wants to rip the flesh off when he thrusts up inside her harshly. It's their idea of a funny game because they both know they have the capacity to hurt each other for real if they really wanted to. Love is always best when it hurts and bumps and bruises are nothing in a full contact sport.

There's the slip of skin on skin because in this position, her wedged between the wall and him, there's no space; he presses against her like he wants to get all of his body inside her, she presses against the wall for the same reason. If nostalgia were a thing either of them believed in they'd be getting drunk off the scent of each other and instead of ragged breaths pouring out them there would be tender words and heartfelt declarations like there were before.

Somehow or other they end up on the floor, him up on his knees, spread wide, her thighs draped over his with her feet braced behind him.

He loves how her skin feels sticky and damp under his hands, the way sweat beads delicate and feminine across her chest, the way her belly concaves and the bottom of her ribs stand out stark creating swells against her flesh that mimic the swell of her breasts sitting high above them.

With his head hung loose between his shoulders he gets the accompanying visual to go along with how she feels around him, tight and unbelievably wet; it makes his cock throb to see her insides push up between her fragile hip bones as he moves.

He wishes he could get it up for someone else; that he could spite fuck her out of his system; that he still didn't want this, want her. Wished it was just sex or fucking or whatever you want to call it that you can't because there's too much unsaid and unaccounted for between them for it to be those things. It's not lust or love, it's a raw need that's laced and bound, restrained and never fulfilled because they want the people they aren't anymore, and maybe never were.

Her face doesn't twist up into ecstatic pain, or any semblance of it. There's a slight furrow to her brow and a sharp K9 pressed into her soft lip, but her face is free, open and honest; all the things he wanted to achieve with a shotgun instead the rush of endorphins his body plunging into her creates. He knows if she ever showed this unguarded side of her to someone else he'd kill her, even if it makes him a hypocrite. If he did her face would probably look the same as it does now.

He thinks seeing her like this is the closest thing he'll get to seeing the promised land, and it's that and the way her nails are clawed softly against the pillowed flesh of her breast, the other pressed against his hand pressing against her hip that springs the coil low in his gut and has him spilling inside her before her body offers one last fluttering clench around him.

They're both liars, she's just the better one between them, and she's reached that point where lies and life bleed together so much that even she can't distinguish one from the other. When he dies a little inside her there's a hint of something like loss around his eyes as she pulls away and slips her shirt back on, face back to being impassive, panties long lost and forgotten at this point.

She could disappear, but she doesn't; 'swagger' might be an overstatement, but there's a roll to her hips as she leaves that leaves him on the floor shoving his hand in the fire once again for the same and different reasons all at once.

 


	2. Lemonworld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of the first draft Lemonworld that I tossed out.

He sits in the attic for hours, even in the stifling heat of summer, and rolls the red ball back and forth, back and forth. Beau doesn't take up much of his thoughts even when they do talk, and more often than not he thinks about the conversations he'd have with Violet if she were there. He frames his apologies just right for the day when she finally does decide to reappear, like an actor memorizing a script. Thinks how after she does reappear they can be friends, maybe, if nothing else.

It's when his mind wanders to the possibility that she might just go back to ignoring him that he gets angry. Angry that she told him to 'go away'; angry that she had disappeared and abandoned him here; angry that her love for him wasn't strong enough to excuse the things he did like his would have for her. But he knows how this conversation goes because they'd had it more than a few times before she disappeared. He had hurt her, lied to her, destroyed her trust, and he couldn't protect her from the one thing she really needed protection from: him.

He waited, wandering the halls at night when the house was quiet and sleeping on the floor of her old room when someone living didn't occupy it. So many times as he was just on that wonderful brink of sleep and wakefulness he thought he could feel the warm weight of her hand in his. When he forced his eyes open there was nothing there in his hand and the feeling was fleeting. It happened so often he decided he was hallucinating or dreaming it, but he wasn't. She was there wrapping her hand around his to close the distance between them, but disappearing again when his eyes fluttered open, too scared to hear him say the things she knew he would when he saw her.

So when he sees the familiar swish of honey blonde hair passing the doorway to her old room, his older room, and someone's new room he doesn't quite believe it's real because he's had this dream before. Still he gets up and follows, catching another glimpse before the bathroom door closes softly behind her. He debates for a minute, as he hears her turn the water on and rummage through the cabinets, but it's the idea that he won't see her again for another decade that makes him appear opposite her, invisibly leaning against the wall as she arranges bottles around the tub and undresses.

He's forgotten how small she is, how he used to loom over her. He's hungry for the sight of her, tracing half-forgotten curves with his eyes, and she smiles, small and to herself, when she smells him; that peculiar mix of musk and soap and wood smoke that was always him to her. He's here and close and that's okay because his presence has always been comforting and safe, even when it shouldn't have been.

She's tempted to ask him if he's enjoying the show, but that level of camaraderie seems so foreign now, impossible that it ever could have existed in the first place. He is anyway; even the harsh rasp of the zipper against his erection isn't enough to kill it, and halfway through her bath he's dying for her to get out so he can get off. Even if it's into his hand, at least it's fresh material and not the same stale memories and fantasies as he's been living with for too long.

He worries just a little when she starts tracing the bold blue line of vein that runs from her elbow to wrist, but it's just her enjoying the pleasant drag of her nails across her skin because she hasn't had a body in so long, and while he's hungrily watching her, she's hungrily enjoying the sensations and small luxuries having a body affords. The way the water heats and flushes her flesh; the pleasurable abrasion of scrubbing her skin.

She doesn't need to see him to know he's got a smirk on his face as he watches her work through half a dozen bottles of her "girly shit" that he swears are completely pointless, but nonetheless always enjoyed the results of when his hands were on her afterwards. As her mind wanders away with that memory she can't help the blush that burns on her cheeks because of all the sensations she's missed that's the most missed.

He watches her dress, sees her scars flash silver and bright against her pinked flesh, and follows her down the hallway, always a step behind until she finds an empty bed in an unused guest room. She slinks between the sheets and burrows her face in the pillow, relishing the cold softness of well-washed cotton as it surrounds her before she says his name. When she peeks up he's standing there looking like he's going to vomit out all the  _I'm sorry's_ , and  _I love you's_ , and _please don't leave me again's_ , that are fighting their way up his throat; if he could pick just one of them he might be able to get it out coherently, but he can't, so he just stares at her and lets her pull him down on the bed.

She puts a hand over his mouth as he opens it. "I don't want to talk, okay?" He nods, still too dumbfounded and shell-shocked to do anything else. Her hand slips away, tangling in his hair as her lips press against his, and he's pretty sure he's finally gone full-blown bat-shit because this can't possibly be happening. Not a whisper in ten years, and now she's squirming in his lap and moaning into his mouth, unwilling to break their kiss, as he's rutting up against her. Even if he did see her again he thought it would take years to get this point, if they ever did. But fucking is so much easier than talking, and her hands are quick and sure as she pulls his shirt off and unbuckle his belt so he can kick his jeans off before laying her down and centering himself between her legs.

He kisses and sucks marks into the skin of her neck making her moan, and he can feel the fresh wave of wetness it causes coating him once he's inside her. Before long she starts to meet his thrusts, wrapping her legs around him so he can hit those spots deep inside her that will send her cascading over the edge. When she does, it's with her head pressed back against the pillows, neck straining, and she's positive she's never cum that hard ever, and he tumbles over the edge after her with a jumble of consonants pouring out his lips against her sweat slicked skin.

She doesn't push him off as he goes limp inside her, just traces shapes on his sweaty back with her nails, and nuzzles her face against him. He's decides to deal with the absolute weirdness of the situation by accepting that he's either crazy and hallucinating, or asleep and dreaming because there's no way what just happened, just happened, and she can't be under him with her arms wrapped around the way they used to when she still loved him.

After a while her hands push against his shoulders and he rolls of her, pulling her against his side and knowing he'll wake up on the floor of her old room in a little while. He lets her sleep, absently pushing the hair out her face when it falls, obstructing his view. It's not until dawn that he finally falls asleep himself, to exhausted to even notice it's happened. When he wakes hours later he can't feel her next to him and his throat constricts convulsively before he even opens his eyes. But when he does open them he's not in her old room, he's in the same bed he fell asleep in and the blood on his dick and the sheets convinces him she was there.


	3. Ghost Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, was cleaning out my files and found this. The idea was actually from the TWoP boards; there was much speculation about whether or not Hallie was a ghost dog or not (at least until the finale). For some reason I just found it funny, but of course when I sat down to write it, it came out kind of depressing.

"Do you think if we killed a dog it would come back as a ghost?" Violet asks as she exhales, sitting casually on the stairs as Moira scrubs at the baseboards, again.

The open front door does little to alleviate the tang of vinegar or acrid cigarette in the air, and even less to cool the house by coaxing in a non-existent breeze. It's summer in L.A. again, the first since Violet died. It's hot and harsh outside the door, but it doesn't dissuade the neighborhood boys from a raucous game of street hockey, and even if the door doesn't admit a breeze, it does admit the sounds they're making.

The street's only yards away, but it's a different world. Every time there's a yell of childish protest at some infraction of game play Violet feels voyeuristic. Not as voyeuristic and perverted as sitting on the porch and watching would make her feel, but the noise is enough to make her feel a little dirty. It's not her world anymore, hasn't been for months, and the fantasies the sight would spawn, though not in the least sexual, would only make her reality worse.

"Not like a little runt like Hailie, like a real dog; a rottweiler or something." Violet says off-hand.

"Why are you asking me?"

Violet shrugs. "Thought you might know, that's all."

Moira sits back on her heels, wringing the towel out. "Why are you even thinking about it?"

"I hate sleeping alone." Violet mutters, avoiding Moira's gaze as it turns from soft to pitying to uncomfortable before she finally drops it back down to the baseboards that didn't need cleaning in the first place.

If a dog could replace Vivien's dead baby why couldn't one replace Violet's dead boy?


	4. Policy of Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this made it's way into Policy of Truth, but I actually wrote it about a week before I got the exchange prompt, and just modified it for that. Personally I prefer this version, though there isn't much difference until about 3/4 of the way through.  
> ...

_Being deeply loved gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. - Lao Tzu_

* * *

 

 

September is the hottest time of year in Los Angeles. The time of year that holds that one week of truly unpleasant weather, hot enough to cause the power grid to overload and fail and train tracks to cook to a nice al dente in the heat of the sun. The only relief from the heat is outside, at night, because Murder House doesn't have tenants, live ones anyway, that payed the power bill.

Tate's sprawled out on a bench in the gazebo, the neighborhood around him silent and still. It's comfortable, sort of. Cooler at least than the house, though the frequent creep and crawl of a bug is annoying. He smirks to himself remembering the phantom bugs you feel when you're high on meth. That and the paranoia of it, the fetid stench that would stick to your skin after sweating out all those poisons and being up far too long, make it a high he hasn't missed.

It could be better though. It could always be better. If Violet was next to him it would be perfect because despite the heat lingering in the air he still misses the warm weight of her curled against his side, her breath washing across the skin of his neck while she slept.

He closes his eyes trying to focus on the memory of it, afraid that forever won't be long enough to experience it again. Inevitably it leads to where it always leads to, innocent and nostalgic as it is.

Thoughts of her breathing against him as she slept only reminds him that she'd always drift off after sex, at least for a little while. Even though there was the initial terror she'd find out she was dead, and then the realized fear of her finding about Vivien - even through all that fear he'd felt like the man he'd never grow up to be.

The cliche, the stereotype of Being a Man and having it tied to sex. It was all bullshit to be scoffed at until the hazy time after he'd pleased her and then laid with her, protective, while she slept. Because it wasn't sex that made you a man, and he'd finally understood what Lao Tzu had meant about love giving you strength and courage. It was the best high he'd ever had; better than drugs, better than killing people.

But thinking of how she'd breath against him in her blissful post-coital slumber makes him think of the breaths she'd huff across his neck when he was inside her. The way the air felt more solid than gas in the inch of space between them. She'd always liked him on top, said she felt safe, loved. He'd always liked it too; the way she held him close like he was her shield.

It's the proximity that he remembers most, that cuts the deepest. He closes his eyes trying to think how it'd look to someone watching, but he can't make his mind move past his head bowed against her shoulder and hers tilted towards his neck. Faces sweaty, eyes closed, mouths lax and filling the space with silent thoughts that cocooned them away from everything else.

There's a tightness in his pants that if it wasn't four in the morning and he wasn't perfectly alone he'd kill with thoughts of Constance. But it is and he is, so instead there's a clink and a zip and he's got his dick in his hand and Violet on his mind.

There's a moment when his hand slips down and the tip of his cock is chilled by the night air that almost breaks him because the only thing he should be feeling is her warm, wet, tightness hugging him, and even the most arrogant part of him can't ignore the crushing despair that maybe forever won't be long enough no matter what he does.

She's never really sure whether it's morbid curiosity, self-destructive emotion cutting, or just bitchiness fueled by jealousy. All, some, none. It doesn't matter really. There's no depth to it; anyone and everyone could guess and be right for her reasons for doing it. Most have. "So is it me or my mom you think about?" She asks as she leans over the railing.

His pace faults and fumbles as his eyes snap open, but it doesn't do anything to wilt the angry looking erection in his hand. Even in the dark he can feel her eyes burning and his turn cold; the cliched fire and ice. That doesn't do anything to wilt it either.

She pulls a drag off her cigarette casting her face in the orange glow momentarily while she waits for his answer. He's not going to; won't justify the bullshit question with the too obvious answer; won't give her the satisfaction of fucking with him instead of fucking him. His head lolls back and his hand gets back to work as he feels hers hook into the bunched up hem of his shirt and pull it higher. "How come I've never seen your wounds?"

He grits his teeth and focuses on his thoughts, memories better than the fantasies because fantasies just remind him that he has to fantasize. It's the drag of her fingernail across his torso, straight up like she's bisecting him, that makes his breath hitch. He misses her smile, too absorbed in the release he's feeling the first stirrings of to notice. He doesn't miss the sharp burn, like the sting of a wasp, against his skin when she drops her lit cigarette onto his stomach.

It only has time to hurt for a second before it's extinguished in the gush of bodily fluids, first semen then blood as his wounds open up. The last thing he feels before he dies is cold. There's a shiver that runs through him as he bleeds out because he should be warm with her around him, and without her life and death are just cold.


End file.
